


Poetry pieces

by Greyphilosopher



Category: Aka my own writing"", Original Work
Genre: Other, Poetry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-01-15 11:40:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18498214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greyphilosopher/pseuds/Greyphilosopher
Summary: Just a little piece.





	1. The Scriv fell in love

**Author's Note:**

> An outlet.

Once upon a time, very long ago, there was a young scriv.

Though human, barely so. With a heart as numb and cold as the stone around them.

  - No. Not cold. Coldness is a feeling. And they felt nothing. That is what made them barely human.

The young scriv lived a life alone. Their path was barren, empty, with nothing but themselves to walk it. A train track that spiralled endlessly further and further with no destination, no reason, and not with a single of the two in mind. It simply was.

She simply was.

But then, she wasn't anymore.

Suddenly there was colour in the world. Dim, faint.

  
Trailing like autumn leaves with no sound. And it followed someone.

 

A girl.

 

With sun blonde hair and hazelnut eyes. And a smile that could light up the deepest sorrows of the world.

And she was an angel with broken wings.

Perhaps it was unavoidable, perhaps it was meant to be, whatever you decide for yourself it was, the scriv fell in love.

And love lit inside them what had died so long ago, and for the first time, they loved in turn.

  
Loved for the first time, felt, for the first time.  
For two years the scriv followed, and for a year, the angel was hers.

  
She was hers, and she was theirs.  
And they loved.

And they loved.  
  


 

* _And they lost_ *

 

But you know how these stories go. Love is life's kindest cruelty, or perhaps cruelest kindness? For though the two shared as mere children what most wished to share on their death beds, it was to end.

And now that scriv stands. With taller shoulders, a higher head. With more words and more talent and more charm then ever before. With more courage and more skill and more strength.

 

But their heart.

Oh their heart.

Their heart has yet to heal.


	2. Solemn pain

A solemn figure standing all alone,  
A solemn figure dancing all alone

A song without a note.

So you dance to the beat of her last-  
You dance to the beat of what has already past  
You dance to the beat of your own solemn heart

You dance to the notes that faded so,  
Dance to the song already gone.

Dance to a memory you won't let go.

Hum to the lullaby of her song  
Reach for the touch you remember so,  
Dance to the lover that you won't let go

A lonely figure standing all alone.

A solemn man yearning for the touch of home.

A hurting lover wondering why he can't let go,

  
Because it hurts without her so.


	3. Bitter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I still miss you.

**3 months.**

 

That is how long it has been.

 

3 months.

 

*She ached.*

 

She ached, even though, truthfully, she no longer should. Should healing not have happened by now? Should she not have recovered? Should she not stop *sulking?*  
Ah, *should should should*, but that was her mistake was it not? Believing that she *should.*  
Because nothing really happens because it should- things happen because they happen. And they happen completely of their own accord. That was how the Universe worked, how it string itself in spiderwebbing.

*She knew that.*

Thunder rolled across the sky- flashes from between the clouds accompanying the distant roar. It was raining tonight. Storming outside her window. Howling. Crying. Outside the window-

Just like she was.  
Muffled by a mere pane of glass- but it was there. Howling. Crying. Just-just past a thin pane of glass. Roaring. Rolling.  
*Just past the surface, just enough to ignore if you tried. And just enough to fill your skull. To drown you, if you let it.*

She has not yet drowned in the roar. Not by a long shot. She almost had- once- the week after her world had fallen to splinters.

*Another distant clap of thunder.*

Bitter, the taste. Her mouth, no, her Soul felt bitter. Bitter as lemon. Bitter as acid. Salty. Indescribably so. Bitter--  
...  
And sorrowful. Nostalgic, as a glass of red wine. And all the aching memories that came with it.

*The wind licked at her bedroom windows.*

She lay in her bed. But her covers leant her no warmth. Not with the raging cold in her heart. But not an Apathetic cold. Not a trained one. The kind of cold that came with having your heart broken, and your pride damaged.  
Inconsolable was her pride at this point. Oh it still raged at times, just like it always did in it's natural way. But it was quiet these days. Quiet out of shame. And regret. Truthfully also out of *self pity* but everyone knew that. There was no point in bringing it up anymore.  
All knew. All knew that she was a prideful bastard. She had never hidden it.  
What they didn't see was the insecurity she had picked up- the insecurity that reminded her every day of how *foolish* she was. Had been. Will be.  
Merciless in it's many truths. *And merciless in it's few lies.*

*Another clap, another roar, another pounding ache.*

Would she run to him to be consoled again tonight? Write him another letter, for him far off in his observatory, another letter begging for attention. Another letter begging for love and trust and promises.  
Another letter that, unlimately, always ended up in the bin before he would receive it. Her pride made sure of that.  
The last thing she wanted was to give the impression to the Doctor. W. D. Gaster that she was a *complainer*. Never, never, never.

*There needs to be one person in this world who still believes she's more than just a raging wirlwind of self pitying, dammit.*

*Meaning, the only person that believed that of her was herself.*

She clutched her pillow tighter. No tears would stain it-- but she couldn't be sure. Couldn't be sure. Not when her heart still wept.  
It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.  
It hurt every day and every night and every moment in between.

And she did not know if she was tired of it-

Or if she had become addicted to it.

*Like she had once before.*

*The same mistake- When she lost the only thing that ever meant anything to her.**

***When she lost the only thing that truly mattered at the time.**

 

Ah, but surely she was being dramatic.  
Time to pick yourself up.

But she didn't. She lay there. And she lay there. And she lay. Letting the storm lap at her windows.

Letting the storm lap at her bitter, bitter Soul.

 

 

 

" How does it taste, my Pride? How does it  
taste? "  
" Does it burn? Is it *sweet...?*"

*How does it taste to you, my **Love?**"  
.  
.  
.  
\---- "Bitter, dearest. "

 

***" Bitter as my Heart."**


	4. Paperclips and bandages

When you came home

 

With broken bones and a shattered heart

I was the one who picked up the shards

And made you better with paperclips and bandages

Wrapped you up in the warmest thing I could find.

Oh my dear friend

Please

Don't

Cry

You'll be alright.

 

We'll both be smiling come the morning light.


	5. Dearest Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A small vent.

Oh Dearest Mother;

You make me self-destruct.

Hand across my face, pulse at my throat,   
Roses o'er my brow, and static in my safe space,,

Ne'er before has the voice been so loud...

"Let me home" it plead. "Please, please."  
"I don't want to be here anymore."

"I am so tired."

"Perhaps I should break my fingers"; it thought. Snap them one by one.  
Cut bleeding welts into my skin. Or may haps rip out my teeth, point for point,,  
\--Bash in my ribs and breath blood.

You make me self destruct,  
\--in ways I do not love. But find beautiful, ne'er the less.

I cry, I cry-  
Water trips o'er my cheeks a faucet, tap, tap, tap.  
In short, quick bursts, before buried 'neath the tide.

Apathy my hide;

Oh dearest Mother;

I don't want to play anymore.


	6. Letters on read.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short one!

A letter, you say, my cyber cyphers are. A little envelope which you will open at a later date, when the world is a little less noisy and you can think straight.

Perfectly understandable, I understand, I do.

Except,  
that you never reply.  
Do you?


	7. Baby please, have mercy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ollie MN hath inspired me, I couldn't stop listening to his music for a straight three hours and this happened.  
> Meant to be lyrical, something like a whole song? But I doubt I will ever write it in complete like such.

Baby please, have mercy.  
My heart is made of ice and snow,   
I wanna know what the sun feels like on my cold bones.

I'm tired of these thorns, I wanna be nice, soft and warm.

I wanna know what it's like to be a bug in a mug,  
A kitten a sock  
A nice cup of hot cocoa by the fire place,

A well worn book up on the shelf  
I wanna know that nice, homey feel I've never felt myself...

*instrumental*

Baby please...  
Have mercy...  
Don't get tired too quick of me.  
I know I'm odd, I know I'm cold.

So just stuff your hands below my shirt, above my breast where my heart lies.  
Inside it's cold I know... But atleast my skin can warm you up.  
I'm not as sweet as hot chocolate,  
But if you're looking for something mild. Odd. And full of dread...

Baby...

I'm way ahead.

*instrumental*


	8. A Writer as Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Throws text at ya face.

A writer wished to write the living.

Yes, no no, not imitate the living. Not write *about* the living.

*Write the living.*

Write a tale and give it life. Write a sentence and give it voice.

Write a story and make it *real*. For nothing less than that, acceptable;

"No, not to someone as vain as I."

They said, the writer promised to write living stories.  
There was no feeling they would not dare express, no situation, no scandalous debate no moral they would not question. They would write life; as it truly were.

For this individual dared to challenge the very heavens. "I will write stories the same way you do."

A writer wished to make living stories, and as such,  
Placed a piece of their soul in each one.


End file.
